


Nobody's Fault

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bondage, Drugged Sex, Drugs Made Them Do It, Everything Hurts, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Past Rape/Non-con, Please tell me if I've missed any tags!, Rape, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 23:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11092587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Kraglin gets drugged. It's an unhappy experience, for everyone involved.





	Nobody's Fault

**Author's Note:**

> **MAJOR WARNINGS for Kragdu rape/noncon. Seriously. Read no further if that's likely to be triggering/upsetting. It does end happily (as happily as it can....) and no one's _strictly_ at fault as drugs are very heavily involved, but it's still pretty damn awful. Read at your own risk.**
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> **This fic mentions Romago. Romago is a character of mine. His first (and last) meeting with Yondu occurs in _The One with the Hostile Takeover_ , one of my early fics. I would say 'don't read that because it's got noncon', but... If you enjoy this fic, do check that one out (and its sequel!) for more awful Yondu!whump + Kragdu h/c.**
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> ****

Yondu blames Isla. Or possibly Morlug. It’d be easiest to blame the Madame who’d requested a coupla boxes of performance-enhancer for her bordello. But she runs the best bot-brothel this side of Betelgeuse and has been a recurring customer since before… well, before the tribunal.

There’s precious-few of his early clients who haven’t blocked his contact number. Some have even taken out restraining orders – overkill, in Yondu’s opinion; he’d only hunted ‘em down once to make sure there hadn’t been a technical mishap, and twice just to scare 'em.

Anyway. Ain’t no way he’s losing that revenue – so Isla and Morlug it is. They’re the ones who were overseeing stacking on that day. And Kraglin. But it’s hard to be pissed at a guy when he’s about to fuck you, so Yondu decides to save it until he’s worked the five-times-the-recommended-amount-of-powder Kraglin’d no doubt snorted when he fell into the fucking crate, out of his first mate’s system.

Kraglin, lashed to Yondu’s bed with four of their discarded belts and an arrow holster, growls like a hungry animal.

Yondu sticks a bare foot in his face. “Suck it up,” he mutters, sliding the second finger in. “Once I let ya start, you ain’t gonna be able t’stop – so here’s to me being able t’walk tomorrow.”

He’s sitting on Kraglin’s thighs, facing him; the perfect position to treat his weeping red cock to a clinical appraisal. It’s very, very red. Gone kinda purpley actually. The veins are standing out like parasitic worms.

Yondu tilts his head. “That don’t look comfy.”

“It’s not,” Kraglin grits. “Can ya please untie me.”

Yondu snickers. Twists his fingers into a point and bears down on them, then spreads, relishing the stretch. “Uh, nah. Not yet. This stuff makes ya pretty strong; I don’t want you puttin’ me through the bed or nothin’.”

Kraglin’s far-gone enough to barter – “I’ll fuck you on the floor; please, sir; please!”

Yondu uses the hand previously engrossed with pumping his dick to ruffle Kraglin’s sweaty hair. “Yer cute like this, ya know? Might keep ya tied up for the entire – woah, woah, woah!”

Glaring at him, Kraglin clenches his fists, every wiry muscle linking his lean arms and chest straining, and _pulls_.

The belts stretch like rubber bands. Then snap. One after the other. Ping, ping, ping, ping.

Yondu’s mouth falls open. “Think I should warn Madame that her wares’re a bit more potent than expected,” he says weakly. Kraglin smiles, pulling Yondu more firmly onto his lap. Their cocks rub. Yondu glances at the red welts on Kraglin’s wrists, where the belts were tied, and frowns.

“Hey – yer strong now, but be careful, yeah? You ain’t no more durable. Don’t want you strainin’ nothing – oh fuck.”

Kraglin plants a hand under each asscheek and lifts him _up_. Then _on_.

Yondu’s too shocked to stutter out an order for him to slow the fuck down, as the head of his cock pops into his barely loosened hole. Kraglin can’t do that. There ain’t no way he can haul him about like he don’t weigh nothing. He’s a fucking stick and Yondu’s not a little guy, and…

Kraglin holds his dick steady with one hand, and slams Yondu’s hips down with the other. It’s too hard and too dry and it hurts like a bitch, and Yondu’s sure to inform him of this – but there’s also a long cock throbbing, and a bit of roughness in the bedroom ain’t nothing new. When Kraglin picks him up and drops him again he scrapes right over his prostate.

Yondu settles his hands on his shoulders. His knees are hooked on Kraglin’s arms and he feels oddly on display. Head tucked forwards, he gasps hot air down his chest and lets himself be moved.

Okay, yeah. So. This is totally hot.

Pain don’t last too long – he’d lubed Kraglin up, thank fuck, and gotten a decent amount into himself before Kraglin had decided to skip straight to the main act. Add to that fact that, if he tenses his stomach and wraps his forearm more securely around the back of Kraglin’s neck, he can fist his cock in time to the raise of his body and the spine-splittingly deep drop, this ain’t half bad.

“Fuck,” Kraglin puffs in his face. He’s flushed, more than usual, red stippling his cheeks, ears, and neck, patching his chest like spider-bites. The hair on his trunk is scraggly with sweat. Yondu wishes he could nuzzle it – although he ain't in the most comfortable of positions, thighs up and cramping. If it weren’t for the arms locked like steel under his legs, he’d be balanced on his tailbone. And Kraglin’s cock, of course.

He concentrates on squeezing his ass muscles and pulling Krags towards an orgasm. This stuff ain’t a one-shot wonder: puts your balls into overdrive. Who knows how many times he’s gonna have to milk Krags off before he’s all juiced out?

Luckily, it seems that the overdose has at least reduced the drug’s infamous lasting qualities. Kraglin cums in him with a groan before Yondu’s even halfway done – and then just keeps thrusting, stiff as ever, squelching the musky, sticky jizz deeper inside him with every buck of his hips. The dry slap of their skin becomes distinctly wetter.

Yondu shudders. Okay. So this is gonna be… messy. “How ya doin’?” he pants.

Kraglin’s got a vein standing out in his temple. His face is almost the same shade as his dick.

“Harder,” he gasps, eyes black pinpricks. “I’m gonna fuck ya harder.”

Yondu shrivels at the intensity of that gaze. Not fear, just… a healthy dose of trepidation. Usually, this position means he can control the depth and pace, but with Kraglin on souped-up steroids, or whatever else that powder had been distilled with, control is the last thing Yondu has. He clutches his shoulder a little tighter. Drops his dick so he can hang on with both hands.

But he can’t say no. Not now. Kraglin needs this.

Yondu swallows. “Okay, just, y’know, not too much –”

“ _Thank_ you.” Kraglin’s fingers lock on his hips, and fuck, _fuck_ , that’s gonna bruise. Yondu winces. He tries to rearrange, but is prevented by the sudden increase in speed as Kraglin takes over completely: holding him off his lap and slamming up into him, battering him like he’s the top-scoring target in a pinball game.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Yondu’s got sparks zinging up his spine, not necessarily the good kind. He clamps his jaw and fights not to let any noise escape. But an especially hard thrust brands the imprint of Kraglin’s pelvis into his asscheeks and splinters something deep inside him.

Everything suddenly becomes a lot more slippery.

Hell, that can’t be good. He grabs the back of Kraglin’s neck, fisting at the tender hairs there, trying to haul him to a halt and failing miserably.

“Ah – fuck, Krags, that’s… ah!”

“Too much?” Kraglin pants, sounding disappointed. Yes. Yes it is. Yondu shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “Good.”

Kraglin strains forwards, pressing a kiss to his sweating temple. There’s bloody jizz dribbling out from around where his cock’s seated, milky against the seam between red and blue flesh. When Kraglin cums for the second time, more pulses out. Seed squishes messily in Yondu’s ass. It’s so hot, so sticky, and he’s full of it, already overflowing. Slimy strings coat his ass and perineum. The space behind his balls is as slippery as a woman’s.

And Kraglin… Kraglin’s still hard.

“Damn, captain,” he breathes. This close, he can probably hear the hitches in Yondu’s breath when his cock sinks in. He passes a hand over Yondu’s flagging dick in silent apology – but doesn’t make to pull out. Just kneels up – Yondu still taking him to the root, held precarious but firm by Kraglin’s too-strong arms – and deposits him roughly backwards with his head towards the foot of the bed.

“Y’might wanna hold onto that,” he says, nodding at the footboard.

Yondu scarcely has time to obey, before Kraglin’s off again. The first impact jars his arm, shoulder clicking where it’s twisted over his head; Yondu flinches, grip slipping, and the next thrust slides him back half a meter. Frowning, Kraglin grabs his hands. He squeezes his palms in a way that’s supposed to be comforting but, with his increased strength, only makes the tendons ache. When Yondu tries to wriggle free, Kraglin shakes his head and resets his hands firmly around the bed’s bottom bars. “I said hold on, sir.”

“Right,” Yondu gabbles. “Right, right…”

He tries, he really does. But Kraglin’s pistoning into him like he’s trying to jumpstart an M-ship. Yondu’s soon squished back against the bars, neck at an uncomfortable angle. And damn, but he hasn’t felt this vulnerable, this fucking helpless, since…

He tries to swallow, but chokes on spit as Kraglin hammers a particularly hard set of thrusts home.

No.

He’s not thinking about that.

Not thinking of cyborg captains and robotic eyes, and metal cocks that’d torn into him with the threat that if he didn’t lay there and take it, Quill would. This is Kraglin. He’s here with Kraglin now, and Kraglin would never do nothing like that, not to him. Not to Peter. Not through no fault of his own.

But Kraglin’s not really Kraglin right now, is he?

Yondu squeezes his eyes tight shut and wills himself to forget. That makes it worse though – the hands gripping his wrists are moist and warm but for a moment, he almost feels chrome.

His heart stutters. No. He’s gotta keep a handle on it. He can’t fall back into that state, can’t return to that awful day. Or he’ll freak and whistle and...

Fuck.

He could kill him. He could kill Kraglin.

That’s a sobering enough thought to spur Yondu into wrestling self-control. He gives his mental self a firm shake, and a slap for good measure.

_You’re doin’ this because he needs your help. Because he needs you._

Then Kraglin’s teeth gnash closed on his neck. Pain spikes. Sure, Yondu’s used to the odd nip in the bedroom, but this is different – he’s _biting_ , and Yondu releases the bar entirely to yank on his Mohawk.

“Stop,” he snaps. “Dammit, Kraglin, stop.” Kraglin snarls against his skin, all predator. Yondu freezes. “Stop,” he whispers again.

The fingers wound in Kraglin’s hair tremble. He can feel himself shaking, from his shoulders to his toes. The legs hooked up around Kraglin’s waist slip to rest on the mattress as Kraglin pulls out of him, teeth still buried in Yondu’s neck. It takes him a moment to realize that he ought to remove those too. When he does, Yondu feels every millimetre of their retreat, just as vividly as the burn of his withdrawing cock. He sucks air desperately, eyes locked onto the ceiling over Kraglin’s head. He can feel blood pooling in the v between his collarbones. Fuck.

Kraglin’s watching him. Yondu doesn’t want to know what he sees. His head’s a mess and he wants to push him back, to roll off the bed that still holds so many terrible memories, even after it’s all been trashed and changed. He wants to walk away right now. But he can’t.

What if Kraglin can’t get off alone?

What if Kraglin won’t let him go?

Yondu lays as still as he can and looks anywhere but his partner, waiting for the shakes to abate. Slowly, very slowly, Kraglin leans in. He presses the tip of his tongue to the furthest bloody blue streak. Then flattens it and licks up. The drag of that hot, soft muscle, the smear of saliva on his flesh – it’s tangible, real. Yondu focuses on that as his shivers start to recede.

It’s Kraglin. Just Kraglin.

Kraglin who, from the restrained shudder in his thighs, is desperate to start fucking him again. Yondu can’t handle that. He needs time, he needs to calm the fuck down. He needs to get himself into a mental state where he ain’t gonna freak and whistle his arrow through Kraglin’s skull. He can’t do this. Not without –

As soon as the idea’s formulated, he shies away from it. But this ain’t no time for backing down. It might work.

“You gotta gag me,” he croaks. Kraglin, bless him, frowns. His brain’s obviously not quite picking up on the signs in front of him – best it stays that way; last thing Yondu wants to deal with when all this is over is Kraglin being all weepy and withdrawn because he thinks he’s raped him or something.

Yondu tries to smile reassuringly; manages a tight wobble. “C’mon. We done this before, right? Y’know I like it.”

Sometimes. Rarely. Under the right circumstances, when Kraglin knows which knock means go and which stop. Heaven knows, he ain’t gonna be listening for that now. But that’s okay. Yondu’ll… zone out, or something. Deal with the fall-out in the morning.

He points to the snapped belt dangling off the far bedpost. “There,” he says, voice breaking. “Use that, yeah?”

Kraglin’s too eager to hesitate. He grabs the belt, thankfully having the presence of mind to untangle it rather than just break it again, because it’s already gonna be a tight fit. He advances on Yondu with it held out like an offering, and it’s all he can do to calmly open his mouth and let him slip it inside.

Kraglin slides a thumb under his jaw, squeezing it shut. Deadening his gaze, Yondu complies. He holds the belt there, biting down, getting his teeth used to the give of the leather, as Kraglin rolls him onto his front. Then he grabs the two ends – Yondu having the sudden image of reins and a bit, absurd enough to startle a muffled laugh – and fastens them behind his skull.

It cuts into his ears. It drags on the side of his mouth, stretching his lips grotesquely. Spit gathers. Yondu lets it drool over the mattress as Kraglin pulls the knot tight and lifts his hips.

This position. This feeling, this straining bubble of panic in his chest…

Metal hands on a bleeding back. A cruel hiss of words in his ear, promises of pain for him and a cage for Quill. Endless and unyielding.

Kraglin pushes in. Yondu’s spine arches. It ain’t nowhere near as gut-rendingly agonizing as Romago had been. But he’s been fucked pretty long and hard already. And while he’s all sloppy with Kraglin’s jizz and – he’s fairly certain – a decent amount of his own blue blood – the slightest pressure on his hole aches like Kraglin’s salting him. He hears the soft squelch as Kraglin bottoms out, cock filling him with barely any resistance. There’s a pass of hands over his legs. He’s spread until he’s in the position Kraglin wants, collapsed chest-down with his arms wrapped protectively over his head as if he’s trying to block out the world.

Only it’s not the world he’s trying to block out. Facedown like this, forcing air through his nose… It’s so similar, so wrenchingly, disgustingly similar…

Yondu hates himself for being unable to move on, for making this harder than it has to be because he can’t control his own fucking memories. Hates that he’s in this position again, only that this time it’s someone he loves who’s making him burn.

 _Soft_ , he snarls at himself, clutching desperately at the implant’s crystal wedge. _Weak, pathetic, stupid…_

Kraglin drives forwards, snorting a bubble of snot out of his nose. Fuck. He’s crying. He’s fucking crying. Oh fuck, Kraglin can’t see this, Kraglin can’t know… Yondu buries his face in the sheet, scrubbing futilely from side to side. His eyes are raw. It’s nothing compared to the rawness of his insides though, so he concentrates on that until he’s got the blasted dampness under control.

Then Kraglin’s long fingers fasten on his nape and pin him.

After that, the tears leak out of their own accord, forming a soggy patch almost as large as the one under his drooling mouth. Yondu doesn’t bother to hold them back any longer. Romago had strangled him, hadn’t he? He’d left his marks, those buckle-prints across Yondu’s shoulders and the fingerprints on his neck. He’d hidden them all from Kraglin until they’d healed, leaving only strips of silver on blue, which he only has to see when he turns too fast in front of a mirror. But while the impression of the hand bruised into his throat had sunk the quickest, it’s the one memory that he’s never been able to shake.

Kraglin’s not pushing down hard enough to stop his breath. Nowhere near. He probably intends that steady weight of his hand to be reassuring, or something. But Yondu’s lungs have stopped working, airways clamped tight. His vision’s going fuzzy. Grey around the edges.

That’s good. That’s good. Unconsciousness is… good.

Kraglin’s fucking him so deep he can feel the punch all through his guts, and when he cums for – what, the third time? Fourth? Yondu screws up his face at the far-off churn of fluid in his ass.

“One more, I think,” gasps Kraglin. He sounds worn out but he’s still going strong. Fuck the rest of him, Yondu’s asscheeks are gonna be black and blue from having those bony hips banging against them come morning.

Morning. When is that again?

“M’gonna go for it. Okay?”

Floating in the haze between past and present – _gotta do what he says, gotta do what Romago says or he’ll hurt Quill_ – Yondu nods and relaxes as best as he can. He doesn’t try to whistle. Just mouths the wet leather, molars champing on air, and chases that black numbness that promises relief.

He’s unconscious by the time Kraglin flips him onto his back again, drawing one of his legs up and straddling the other so that their lower halves form a sticky cross-section. There’s blue mixed with the white that spurts from his ass as Kraglin thrusts, and more blood stains his jaw from where the belt’s cut his lips.

Kraglin doesn’t look at his face though. He’s too drawn up in the need for release, teeth bared, driving his hips forwards like he’s looking to mine Yondu through.

He doesn’t realize until he’s cum for the final time.

It’s practically volcanic. He hunches forwards, abdomen defined through the thin skin of his belly, and pumps Yondu fuller than he’s ever been. Tension sags from Kraglin like air released from a high pressure valve, as his last pulses gush into Yondu’s fucked-loose body. His balls are drier than the Jaku desert. They may have shrivelled away entirely. Certainly feels like it. Gasping like he’s outrun a bilgesnipe, Kraglin collapses flat on Yondu’s chest.

There’s no response. Not a grumble. Not even an ‘oof’, or a playful threat. But Kraglin’s attention’s on other things. Mainly, the overwhelming relief as finally – finally – the bloodflow to his cock ebbs. The erection wanes and shrinks. He has to twist to ungum himself from all the drying fluids that are spattered over Yondu’s inner thighs. Slightly disturbed at how much has come out of him, he pushes up on his elbows and lets Yondu’s leg flop bonelessly down.

Damn, what the hell was that powder? Jizz-o-matic? Because there’s a lot of it. A lot. Yondu looks like he’s been reamed by half the Ravager army, what with the jizz and the froth and the –

Fuck, the blood.

Kraglin, still half-dazed from the explosive release, struggles upright. He sits at Yondu’s side and, for the first time, notices that his eyes are shut and there’s tears as well as spit and sweat on his cheeks.

Fuck. Fuck.

Kraglin’s hands start to shake; belatedly, he remembers that Yondu’s had been too, when he’d pointed out that belt. It takes him three times to unpick his knot – how tight had he tied it? “Why’d ya ask me to gag you, sir? Oh… Oh fuck.”

Because when the belt peels away, it leaves bruised black lines all around Yondu’s skull. His mouth’s torn and swollen. Kraglin touches it, expecting Yondu to startle awake and stop him – but while his eyelids flutter, it’s not a glare that greets him, or an angry cuss.

It’s a rough moan – followed by a whimper.

Kraglin’s heart drops out of him. He holds Yondu’s face still, forcing him to look at him – “It’s me! Captain, it’s me!”

Yondu claws at his wrists, eyes too big for his face. He chokes on a high, horrible little noise, one which Kraglin suspects is a sob, and tries to whistle.

No sound comes out, although Kraglin’d probably deserve it. He freezes. Yondu’s pupils shrink further as he realizes he can’t defend himself – and damn, but Kraglin can’t tell if he’s seeing him, or if he’s seeing…

Fuck.

Kraglin releases him. Lets him burrow his head in the sheets like looking away will make Kraglin vanish. Like a fucking scared child.

He shifts back on the bed, moving slow. Yondu’s throat rattles every time the mattress dips.

He wants to hold him. Wants to help. But if he gets any closer, help is the last thing he’s going to be doing. Kraglin’s stomach is a cold lead knot. He works his dry tongue over the roof of his mouth before talking. His voice is weak and tremulous, but it still makes Yondu cringe.

“I’m… I’m not gonna touch you no more. Yeah? I’ll call Isla.” He clears his throat. Imagines that he’s being faced with a jeer and a snarl rather than a mound of trembling blue. “I know you ain’t gonna thank me for it once you’re okay again. But I don’t wanna hurt you no more. I… I can’t, Yondu.” He sucks in a breath. Gets back to the topic at hand. “And you can trust her. I promise. Isla ain’t gonna think no less of you – I’ll kill her if she does.”

Yondu clicks his tongue, hiding his eyes. Kraglin knows he shouldn’t reach out for him, knows he ought to move away. Far, far away. But he can’t help it. Just one last time, he tries to cup Yondu’s bruised cheek.

Yondu flinches and snaps. Blood trickles from the cracks in his lips when he moves his mouth, and what little of his expression that’s visible under his arms is twisted and terrified. Kraglin’s fingers slowly curl back into his palm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He doesn’t tell Isla the details over the comm. Can’t. Their line’s secure, but the words just won’t come. She sees the horror on his face though, and doesn’t crack a single joke before promising to get there as fast as she can.

Kraglin hates to leave Yondu on their bed, as he paces in outside of the cabin door. But he can’t deny that the tension in Yondu’s limbs increases exponentially with his proximity, and the last thing he wants is him hurting himself trying to get away.

He’s pulled on his coat and some pants, scrubbing himself off with his shirt and wincing as he tucks his red cock back behind the zipper. He deserves every bit of the tenderness though – and much worse besides. He spends the next two minutes forcing himself to walk, to suffer the limp and aching swing.

Isla cannonballs around the corner in a flurry of leather. “What’s happened?” she asks, professional and clipped. Kraglin opens his mouth to explain. The words catch in his throat.

“I… I…”

_I think I raped my captain. The man I care about most in the fucking galaxy. I think I hurt him real bad, and I don’t know what to do._

He bows his head. Prepares for her judgment. Opens the door.

Isla’s nose wrinkles as the smell hits her; steamy sex and sweat. She looks like she’s about to tease him – she’s well aware of the incident with the powder, seeing as she’d been the supervisor on deck who’d scolded a dusty Kraglin out of the room. But when she told him to go find Yondu before it kicked in, he didn’t think this was what she’d had in mind.

Isla spies the lump under the sheet. It doesn't register as her captain; not until she sees the shape of his forearms, braced around his head, and his knees, drawn up close to his chest...

“Shit,” she mutters, realization dawning. “Shit, fuck, krutarkin' slag...” Her gaze isn’t angry when it turns to Kraglin though. Just sad. “You’d better stay outside. Go… go shower, yeah? Bring me back some water.”

He doesn’t want to leave. But if he can’t be near Yondu, he can at least make himself useful. Kraglin wipes his eyes and nods. Isla notices the motion, even though her attention is fixed on Yondu now.

“Don’t blame yourself, Krags. I’ve seen this shit in action. It weren’t yer fault.”

It’s easy to say that, when you haven’t just raped someone you love.

Kraglin has to blink at the ceiling until he’s certain the tears are staying in their ducts, where they belong.

“I’ll leave it outside,” he croaks. “The water.”

Isla nods. The side of her mouth is twitched down in sympathy, but her eyes are firm. “You need to go,” she says, already moving to the bed. Kraglin nods, and does.

 

* * *

 

 

He sleeps in his own bunk for the first time in forever. Mind numb. Heart frozen.

How could he? How  _could_ he? Fuck the drugs, fuck the chemicals. He should have noticed as soon as Yondu started... Well, not  _panicking._ Captains don't panic. But something comparable. Whatever the semantics – fact of the matter is, Kraglin should have  _known._

How could he do this? And most importanly, how could he do this to  _Yondu?_  His captain, his partner, his best friend? Kraglin screws the balls of his hands into his eyes.

“Fuck everything,” he whispers.

 

* * *

 

Yondu’s not on deck next day. Isla is.

She hooks Kraglin by the elbow and steers him into an abandoned supply closet, and Kraglin braces himself for what’s about to come – a punch, a harsh indictment, a plasma bolt. But Isla only pushes him to sit on an empty packing crate and heaves herself up besides him, bumping her shoulder against his. Kraglin lets the silence simmer. Then croaks:

“How’s he doin’?”

Isla’s knee nudges his thigh. Kraglin’s so grateful for the contact, for the guilty relief that Isla doesn’t think he’s a monster, that he almost crumples there and then. But he holds himself together long enough to hear her answer –

“Better. Just sat with him a while, until he stopped… well, y’know. Shivering and shit. After that, he let me touch him, s’long as I weren’t too rough. Injuries were pretty nasty, but no worse than how I’ve seen him after fights – although I doubt he’ll be walkin’ with a spring in his step for some time to come.”

That doesn’t exactly make him feel better. But at least Isla don't mince her words. Kraglin swallows, head hung low.

“And does he… does he…” He can’t find the words.  _Hate me? Fear me? Want me dead or off the ship before he’s ready to show his face?_  His voice cracks. “Does he ever wanna see me again?”

Isla sighs, and Kraglin sets to preparing himself for the worst. It’s futile. There  _is_  no preparation for this. No way of acclimitizing to the thought that a Yondu-shaped hole is about to be cut out of his life. Heck, he’s lucky Yondu hasn’t offed him yet himself – although he can’t help but feel that that would be justified. His Adam’s apple bobs against his windpipe, large as a fist, and Kraglin digs his fingers into his knees until the nails ache.

“I, I geddit, that’s all. After what I did, I don’t deserve to  _live_  –“

“Naw,” says Isla fiercely. Pulls him against her into a tight one-armed squeeze, and holds him as Kraglin’s shoulders start to heave. “Naw. Don’tcha ever think that. Weren’t yer fault. Yondu said you could go see him whenever, but that ya might wanna stay away until the bruises go down, 'cause he don’t want ya to see him like that –“

Kraglin shrugs out from under her arm and staggers to his feet. “Forget me! I don’t care what he looks like! I just, I wanna make sure he’s okay…”

Isla pulls him back before he makes it halfway to standing, seating him on the box with a thump and a puff of sawdust. “ _Listen,_ wouldya? He told me t’tell you that. So I’ve done it. But – just, talkin’ to him… After he came back to his own head and started respondin’ normal-like instead of in all those funky clicks…”

Fuck. He’d made Yondu revert to his native tongue. He’s utter trash.

Kraglin’s bottom lip trembles and he digs his nails into his leg again. This time Isla notices. She peels the hand away. He relinquishes his kneecap in aching increments, as if the strength with which he’s clenching has fused his tendons in place, and once Isla's freed his grip she rubs the hairs on his knuckles like she's petting a hamster.

“What I’m tryin’ t’say is, he’s okay. As good as anyone could be. And he still – he still likes ya, y’know? He definitely don’t want ya out of his life or nothing – heck, the way he was talking, playing it cool, sounds like he’ll just pick up where you left off because he thinks he’s got something to prove.”

She doesn’t sound like she approves of this. Kraglin doesn’t either. It’s undeniably, irredeemably  _Yondu_ though, so he just sighs and rolls his eyes. Isla snorts her agreement. “Y’know what he’s like, better than anyone. So y’know that when he’s… hurt, he  _overcompensates._ ”

Oh yeah. Kraglin knows. He’s got the scars to prove it – a certain Ravager captain’s inability to own up to honest-to-god emotion with anything other than fists has left Kraglin with plenty of lovetaps over the years.

“So he might beat me up?” he says. “Or whistle me through?” He feels a twinge of hope – because whatever Isla says, there’s some part of him that wants to be  _punished_ for this. Isla sighs.

“Who knows? Go find out. And – other thing. He said you were to look after the kid until he can run about after him normal-like. Yeah?”

That ain't too hideous a chore. Kraglin spends half his life keeping tabs on Yondu's pet Terran; cap'n might as well make 'babysitter' his official job description.

“Right,” he says. He wipes his eyes, stands, and starts for the door. “I’ll go face my beatdown.”

Isla nods. However, her soft exhale slows his exodus, and her words make it stop completely. “Look. What I’m tryin’ t’say is… Take it slow. Slower than he’s gonna push you too. He’ll try and be  _fixed_ again straightaway without no one’s help – like last time.”

 _Last time._ Thinking of it – Romago’s metal hands smoothing down Yondu’s trembling back, the sick slices carved over his spine, the humiliation and the pain and the knowledge that he had to take it or someone else would – makes Kraglin’s stomach contents curdle.

“But,” Isla continues, “you gotta make him see it’s okay to be helped. if he tries to push himself too hard, be there to catch him.”

That’s something he can promise. Unequivocally. Universally.

“Always,” Kraglin whispers, voice scratchy and low, He gives Isla a final nod – a thanks, an understanding and a confessional all at once – and goes to visit his cap'n.

 

* * *

 

Yondu punches him in the face.

Then, when Kraglin makes no move to fight back, or escape, or even get off the floor, blood streaming from both nostrils in a vibrant red waterfall, he sighs and bends to haul him up.

“Weren't your fault,” he says.

Which is all kinds of stupid, because... Well, Kraglin was  _there._ He knows he's to blame, and he's determined to hate himself, and there ain't nothing cap'n can do about it.

Only cap'n's gonna try. And what cap'n wants, he usually gets.

When Kraglin sags limp, legs refusing to solidify and looking anywhere but Yondu, Yondu sighs and lowers him once more. He crumples in a sallow-skinned puddle, and Yondu hunkers down besides him, moving with a looseness that belies the over-liberal use of numbing agents. His face is a puffy mural of indigo and violet, but at least the shiner he's just given his mate means Kraglin will match.

“Yer dick alright?” he asks. He sounds concerned about it too, in a gruff sorta way. “Didn't rub nothin' raw?”

Kraglin laughs. It's a harsh little bark of a sound. He drags his knees to his chest and buries his big nose between them. “Oughta be me askin' you that.”

“Yeah, well.” Yondu pats him on the back, feigning cheer to mask awkwardness. “Painkillers work wonders, y'know?”

Because that's just what Kraglin wants to hear.

“You oughta kill me,” he mutters. “Same as you would any other man.”  _Same as you did Romago._

The hand on his back lifts away. That's good; Kraglin's got surprisingly high blood pressure for someone so skinny, and he doesn't want Yondu to get splashed. He shuts his eyes and waits for the whistle.

What he receives instead – those same hands returning to either side of his face, warm and broad and rough around the fingertips; and a forehead bonking gently off his – is so much worse.

“No,” he says, pushing Yondu away. “No, you don't get to do this. You don't get to  _forgive me -_ ”

“Issat you givin' yer cap'n orders, Obfonteri?”

Kraglin thinks about it. Ducks his head. “Maybe.”

That head receives a slap – well-deserved, in Kraglin's opinion, although Yondu delivers it for all the wrong reasons. “Don'tchu tell me what to do. Don'tchu tell me what I am, neither.”

“And what are you, sir?” Kraglin peeks at Yondu from under his lashes. He sees the faint tremble in his hands, the calculation in his eyes, the lie in the making. “Don't say yer fine. You ain't, boss. You really ain't. I can tell.”

Yondu deflates, but not before smacking him again. “What did I say 'bout orders, dammit?”

When Kraglin fails to respond, more engrossed with chewing a hole in his bottom lip, Yondu shuffles to the wall. He slumps against it and pats the spot besides him.

He's already fucked things up beyond all hope of salvation. The least Kraglin can do is obey.

It's cobwebby down here – Yondu ain't one for spring cleaning. Kraglin feels sorry for the lil' dustbunnies he's orphaning, as he parks himself over their parents. But it sure beats sitting on the bed.

Kraglin maintains space between him and his captain – only a hand's width, but it might as well have been a lightyear. He can't breach that gap. He can't bear to see Yondu flinch from him again.

“I'm sorry,” he begins. The words feel so paltry, so inadequate in his mouth, that he immediately clams up again. Sometimes, silence speaks louder.

Sure enough, rather than ribbing Kraglin for breaking that Ravager-rule about  _never admitting guilt,_  or declaring that he ain't in the least bit rattled by, y'know, his first mate going on a bender and fucking him until he bled, Yondu's only response is a nod. A single incline of the chin: down and back up. He doesn't try to reassure him. Doesn't put on his big fake grin and lie through his teeth that  _everything's okay_. He doesn't do anything but sit, and stare straight ahead, and breathe.

However, for all he lacks in animation, there's a lot going on beneath the surface. For the first time in Kraglin's living memory, the fortified walls surrounding the man known as Yondu Udonta are teetering.

“I don't blame ya,” he says. That's okay. Kraglin blames himself enough for the both of them. “I want ya to know that. I don't. It weren't yer fault, and I know that...”

“But,” prompts Kraglin, voice so soft it husks on a whisper.

Yondu ain't looking at him. “But it  _hurt,_ Krags. It. It really,  _really_ fuckin' hurt.”

And there it is. Kraglin dangles his head, and wraps his arms over it for good measure. “D'you need me to leave?” he asks. He ain't sure if he means the room, the ship, or Yondu's life altogether. Yondu's shaking his head before he can finish the sentence.

“I need ya to stay right the fuck where you are, idjit.”

“Huh?” Kraglin gestures at himself: a ball of grubby red leather, bony limbs, hair, and heartache. “On the floor?”

Yondu's eye roll is followed by a whuff of air that some might call  _fond._ “No. Besides me, yeah? Where you belong.”

It ain't a promise that they're okay, or a promise that they're gonna  _be_ okay at some point in the far-off future. But it's something. And when the alternative is living without his captain, Kraglin will take that something, and he'll nurture it and nourish it and love it, and do his damnedest best to never let it fade. It'll be hard work, fixing this. But if Yondu's willing to make an effort, Kraglin will match if not outdo him. 

“Where I belong,” he repeats, hoarse. Yondu nods. And – Kraglin keeping deadly still so that Yondu knows he's the one in control – closes that drafty space between them and drapes a companionable arm over his shoulders.

“Wanna take a day? Spend it here, make this, uh,  _renewin' of our vows_ official?” He jerks his jaw at the bed. While he's evidently psyched himself up enough to swallow his usual tells – the tick under his jaw, the grin that's too tight around the edges – Kraglin remembers Isla's warning. He shakes his head.

“If yer... If yer really sure ya want me to stay...”

Yondu glares. “Already said that.”

“I mean really,  _really_ sure -”

“Don't make me repeat myself.”

“ _Really, really -_ ”

This time, the snort is less affectionate. Yondu's eyebrows might be hairless, but they still scowl most magnificently. “Question me one more time and I brig ya, boy.”

“-Then I recommend findin' some pretty Nova-class cruise ship, huntin' her cross the stars, hamstringin' her engines, and blowin' her up so it looks like the Lights of Ogord are flashin' over our graves.”

Kraglin doesn't know the extent of the damage. Can Yondu even walk, when he ain't burning through the medbay's stock of painkillers and flesh-fixing nanite gel? But his smile has become one hundred percent more genuine. And anyway – if he couldn't scupper twenty ships from the comfort of his own metal-plated throne (padded with a pillow or three, at Kraglins insistence), he wouldn't be captain now, would he.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Holy shit I actually made Yondu cry. Thank you for every comment/kudos!**

**Author's Note:**

> How many times can I say I'm sorry? Thank you for every comment/kudos!


End file.
